


glory of youth glowed in her soul; where is that glory now?

by pdoesart (elphie_jolras)



Series: these lines of lightning mean we're never alone [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Ana is made of salt, Character Study, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Hardened Alistair (Dragon Age), Heartbreak, I will ship Adriana Mahariel with anyone and everyone, King Alistair, Mentions of Character Death, Minor Mahariel/Tamlen, Original Character Death(s), Swordfighting, Temper Tantrums, ana's magic is tied to her emotions, but right now I'm sticking with Origins characters, flirting via dueling, she gets angry at the First Warden and has a tirade, this is not how my canon playthrough went, this might end up being a series, well kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 09:04:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8483482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elphie_jolras/pseuds/pdoesart
Summary: she is fourteen the first time she hears the name loghain mac tir.
- OR -
five things that define adriana mahariel's life





	

**Author's Note:**

> title is from the extended version of "the skye boat song" from outlander.
> 
> here's the dealio: i have multiple playthroughs with ana. if you've read "lightning in your eyes", you're familiar with the playthrough where she romanced zevran, but this is based off of the secondary playthrough i did.
> 
> ( this is also based off of rp threads, which you can find most of here: http://mhaoir.tumblr.com/tagged/otp%3A-does-his-love-make-your-head-spin%3F-%28-loghain-%26-ana-%29 )

**i.**

She is twelve summers old when she first falls in love.

Or maybe she loved Tamlen beforehand and she just never realized it, but she is twelve when she knows that she loves him as surely as the sun loves the moon.  He is beautiful, her Tamlen, slender and smart as a whip, with beautiful green eyes and an easy smile that makes her heart beat just a little harder.

She still thinks that she has years left with him, then, thinks that her summer boy will always be hers, that one day he will ask her to be his forever, and she will say _yes_.  They are nearly fourteen when they kiss one afternoon in late summer, right after the fiasco with the bear; he’s wearing the cleaned pelt like a cape and she laughs and laughs and laughs, even though that same bear is the reason her side is bandaged and she can’t take too deep of a breath because it hurts too much.

(The Keeper had refused to heal her with magic and had forbidden Merrill to do so as well; “If you hadn’t skipped your lessons, you’d be able to heal this yourself!”.  Marethari has no pity for those who shirk their lessons, even when the shirker is nearly crying from pain. )

But she and Tamlen kiss under the forest canopy; her hands tremble as she slides them into his hair, as his thumbs brush her cheeks and they kiss and kiss and _kiss_.

A month later, she leaves for the Circle.

\--

She is twenty when she falls in love again, this time with a _shemlen_ boy with tawny eyes and a sardonic little smile that he shoots her when nobody else is looking.  And he gives her the rose and he’s gentle, gentler than any human she’s met before, gentler than any ex-templar has a right to be.  She didn’t think she could love again, not after Tamlen fell and her sister died, but Alistair works his way past her defenses and leaves her wanting to hold him always.

But he is meant to be king and she is nothing but an elf and a mage at that, doubly unsuited to rule in the eyes of the nobility.  Her heart twists in her chest but she takes her duty and honor and she puts it first.  She may love Alistair but Ferelden must come first; he has the claim needed to get Loghain off of the throne.  It may break her heart but she must do it, because what other choice does she have?  She cannot let her homeland suffer for want of the Theirin bloodline.

**ii.**

She is fourteen the first time she hears the name _Loghain Mac Tir._

He is widely regarded as a hero, at least among the _shemlen_ at the Tower; Senior Enchanter Leolah had pressed a book on the King’s Rebellion into Adriana’s hand as soon as the older woman realized that the young girl knew hardly anything about Ferelden’s history.

She reads the book cover to cover, gives it back to Leolah, and asks: “Why don’t the Night Elves exist anymore?”

Leolah gives her a sad look, and shakes her head.  “If Teyrn Loghain had his way, they still would exist, child.  But the other nobility would never allow it; now that the nation’s freedom is secure, they feel that there is no reason to give elves such power.”

Adriana wants to argue, but she hardly opens her mouth before she’s interrupted by a Templar telling them that it’s curfew for apprentices.

She hates Templars, she decides right then, hates how they stifle her freedom.  Isn’t it bad enough that they lock her behind these stone walls and make her sing the Chant and force her to wear _shoes_?  That they shaved her head for fear she carried lice?  Now she can’t even ask questions, questions about history and her people.  She wants to know more, wants to know why the Teyrn doesn’t look down on elves like other _shemlen_ do.

( That night, she dreams of the Night Elves, of being a part of them, of fighting in the rebellion.  When she awakes, she holds the dream close and remembers how real it had felt, how solid her bow had felt in her hands just before she awoke. )

**\--**

She is twenty the first time she meets Teyrn Loghain.

She’s always been charming, at least when she’s not angry – or so Anders and Jowan had always said – and so she manages to persuade the guard outside the Teyrn’s tent that she has an urgent message for the man, and that the message must be given _in person_.  Either she is even more charming than Anders gave her credit for, or the guard is particularly easy to convince, because he doesn’t even ask her who the message is _from_ before he fetches the Teyrn.

She knows that Loghain knows she doesn’t have a message; after all, he instantly recognizes her as the newest Warden recruit.  He says that Irving spoke very highly of her, which is a surprise, considering that nearly her first action after becoming an Enchanter was to help an apprentice escape.  An apprentice who ended up being a blood mage.

“Will you be charging into battle with the rest of your brethren?” Loghain asks her.  He’s tall, towering over her even though she’s tall for a woman, and more than that he’s got a wider frame than her, no doubt from his years as a warrior.

“I don’t know,” she confesses, “I was only partially trained as a Knight-Enchanter before my conscription.”  After a moment’s hesitation, she adds, “I hope to be wherever my sister is.  If she’s charging, I want to be as well.”

“If Cailin has his way, you will,” Loghain says.  And then, after another few words: “You’re pretty, for a Grey Warden.”

Adriana’s cheeks heat up and she’s _very_ glad for her dark complexion, as it will hide any trace of her blush.  She’s never considered herself _pretty_ , nor _beautiful_.  Her features are too sharp for such adjectives, her frame too heavy, and her hair too messy.

“Don’t let anybody tell you that you don’t belong here,” Loghain adds, “The first Warden that Maric brought back into Ferelden was a woman, and she was the best warrior I’ve ever met.”

“I’m no warrior,” she points out, “Not like you.”

“One needn’t wield a sword to be a warrior,” he retorts, “Merely be in possession of a spirit prepared to fight for what it believes in.  Regardless,” and something like a smile touches his lips, softening his face just the tiniest bit, “You carry a spirit weapon, do you not?  A blade is a blade, I’ve found, whether forged from the Fade or from steel.”

And in that moment, Adriana believes that the stories of him are true.

**iii.**

She’s still twenty when she swears revenge.

Her heart aches and her vision blurs with tears she refuses to shed; she takes her pain, her grief, and turns it into something better.  Something strong.

_Loghain will pay for what he’s done,_ she tells Alistair – he thinks she’s referring to the destruction of the Wardens, but she really means the death of her sister.  She barely cares about the Wardens, only really joined them because her sister was there and the alternative was prison, and perhaps she’d have room in her heart for mercy if Loghain’s cowardice hadn’t cost her all that remained of her family.

She swears revenge and Alistair almost _smiles_ , and she doesn’t know if it’s because he won’t be the one to kill a hero or if because he knows she _isn’t_ afraid to kill one.  The way Alistair looks at her is… strange, to say the least.  Some days he seems to think her terrifying, powerful and regal, dealing out death in the name of _justice_.  Other days he smiles at her and looks at her like she is beautiful, a flower rather than a dagger.  And he never treats her differently because of her magic – or her ears.

“Care to join me in my tent?” she asks, because _that’s_ the only experience she’s had with relationships beyond Tamlen; there is no space for love at the Circle.  Everyone was kissing everyone, but there couldn’t be _feelings_ involved.  Feelings inevitably led to Templars finding out and getting involved, and that was messy for everyone.

Alistair turns as red as his rose, from his ears to his chest, and she has to stop herself from laughing.  Laughing would discourage him, _embarrass_ him, and she doesn’t want that.  Despite herself, despite the lessons learned at Kinloch Hold, she holds a tenderness towards this _shemlen_ boy.  It’s a tenderness that only seems to grow every time she deals with Loghain’s men, telling them to report to their _Regent_ and tell him that he will pay for his crimes; he always smiles and her heart beats a little faster.

\--

She’s just turned twenty-one when she turns her back on vengeance.

She chooses mercy at Leliana’s behest; _your sister would not want this_ and Ana’s vision begins to clear – the Orlesian has a point.  Nadya has – had – always been the gentle one, merciful, eager to forgive any who wronged her.

She doesn’t forgive Loghain, but she does spare him.  And Alistair, stronger since finding Goldanna and realizing how awful his sister is, takes the throne and Anora’s hand with a cold look in his eyes.  _I will not call that man brother_.  Why can’t he understand?  Why can’t he see that this is for the best?  They need a tactician like Loghain; more than that, there is something in Riordan’s voice that suggests another body to throw at the archdemon can only be a good thing.

But when she goes to talk to Alistair, with heart open and eyes eager, he turns away from her.

“There’s no _us_ ,” he says flatly, crossing his arms and refusing to meet her gaze.  “There’s _me_ , and there’s the woman who spared Duncan’s killer.”

For a moment – just a moment – she wishes that she could take it back.  Go back to that moment in the Landsmeet and take her revenge.  Take _their_ revenge.  But as it always has, her sorrow turns to anger, bitter words pouring forth in place of tears.

“I showed _mercy_ ,” she spits, balling hands into fists and drawing herself up to her full height – still shorter than him, but impressive enough for an elven woman – “But I wouldn’t expect a _Templar_ to understand such a thing!”

He _does_ meet her eyes at that, and there’s a glint of anger there.  _Good_.

She leaves before she can regret her harsh words.

**iv.**

Ana duels Loghain at the Landsmeet, and she’s terrified of failure.

If she falls then she and Alistair will die, and the Blight will go unchecked and swallow the entirety of Thedas.  If she falls, she will never kiss Alistair again, never press her face into his shoulder or hold his hand in her own.  If she falls, if she _fails_ , she will lose what little she has left.

Loghain is a fierce opponent, taller and stronger than she, but she is lightning incarnate; she summons a storm and uses the electricity as a secondary attack, slashing with her spirit blade in the meantime.  She cloaks herself in the Fade and bares her teeth, eyes flashing with the same intensity as her magic as she faces her foe.  Most foes try to simply wait out the storm of her aggression but Loghain is smarter than that; her parries her blows and sends attacks right back, some of which would incapacitate her if they made contact.

She ensures that they _don’t_.

It takes longer than she would like; her mana is beginning to run low when she finds the crack in his defense.  She pulls the Fade around herself and slips past his shield, pushing against his chest with her shoulder and managing, somehow, to push him to the ground.  One last miniature arc of lightning makes his hand spasm and he drops his sword; she kicks it away and places her foot on his breastplate, pointing her blade at his throat.

He surrenders.

She thinks of all that he has done, the horrors that he has committed, and she wonders how she can reconcile them with the man she had regarded as a hero.  There is no doubt in her mind that he has performed monstrous acts, that his _retreat_ caused her sister’s _death_ – but she cannot help but think of the rebellion.  Of how he would have given _everything_ to ensure Ferelden was freed.  And she thinks of her own passions, her own rebellions, and she considers how much she would do if it meant mages did not have to live in fear, nor elves in squalor.  Loghain Mac Tir has done monstrous things; the question now is whether or not he can _atone_ for those.

Alistair wants her to kill him.  Part of _her_ wants to kill him.  But she thinks of Leliana’s words, of the stories she read in the Circle, of her sister’s _face_ , kind and forgiving and always believing the best of people.

And she accepts his surrender.

\--

She duels him again over a year later on the training ground, in front of recruits who have been begging for them to fight again for _months_.  They are both a bit worn from the day’s workout, and she knows that Loghain is a good deal older than her, so she asks him if he would mind indulging them.  Of course, she goads him a bit, gently teasing him – _old man_ , she says, but it slips tenderly from her lips, her eyes genuine despite the smirk on her lips.  They know each other better, now, have fought side by side more times than she can count.  She wonders if that will make this easier or harder.

They use blunted blades, and Ana promises not to _consciously_ use magic.  She’s certain it amazes them, the way lightning crackles across her skin when she loses herself in anger or frustration – they wonder how she might have escaped Tranquility, with such an astonishing lack of control.  But Ana had carefully hidden her faults at the Circle, and now she simply refuses to expend energy on keeping her magic dampened down.

Loghain is still taller and stronger than she, but she is younger and faster despite her own stature.  It creates an interesting struggle.  She isn’t small enough to be knocked off balance, but she isn’t strong enough to push back all of his attacks, either.

“Don’t hold back,” she tells him, spinning the training sword in her hand.  Their eyes meet, gray and blue, and something almost like a smile pulls at Loghain’s lips.

“I won’t,” he assures her.  She grins, and they begin.

She doesn’t know how long they duel for; each minute feels like an hour.  Her tight curls are coming loose of the ponytail she put them in, and sweat is dripping down her forehead and the curve of her nose.  Still, she parries attack after attack and presses back, never letting him gain too much ground.  It takes longer than she would like for her opening to appear again; she ducks under his swing and dashes forward, knocking him back.  But this time her legs tangle with his and she goes down with him, hands slamming into the packed dirt on either side of his head.

Loghain shoves at her arm, knocking her off balance, and rolls so that she is laying with her back pressed to the dirt as he kneels over her, bringing his sword to lay at her throat.  She grabs for his wrist, arm straining, and bares her teeth as she struggles to push him away.  Her other hand is still holding her sword and she brings it up in an arc, hitting him in the side.  He winces and she arches her back, bucking him off, and then scrabbles to keep him down.

She ends up straddling his stomach, knocking his sword from his hand and pressing her own blade to his throat, her other hand splayed across his chest.  His chest heaves, and she can feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt; it brings a blush to her cheeks.

“Do you yield?” she asks him, a breathless grin gracing her features.  He shifts for a moment beneath her, as if testing how well and truly pinned she has him, before nodding.

“I yield.”

And she pulls him to his feet.

**v.**

She does not expect to love again, does not dare to even _hope_ that a heart as shattered as hers can be pieced together once more, but there he is.  Loghain, stubborn and proud _sharp_ , wit honed from years of practice amid the squabbling nobles of the Landsmeet, is nothing like she has come to believe him to be.  He is almost like she once imagined, prideful hero with blue eyes that she thinks can see right through her.

She knows she can see through _him_.  He has armor he never takes off, the ex-teyrn, armor made of grief and loss, but she knows how to look past it because she wears the same armor.

The Ana of before, the Ana who was blinded by rage and vengeance, would never have admitted it, but she and Loghain are very much alike.  They have lost so much, have crowned kings, have put _duty_ before their own hearts, and yet they have survived.  She finds herself falling for him, slowly and gently, nothing like the tumble of emotions she’d felt for Alistair.  And she knows that he is falling for her, too, catches glimpses of it behind the walls he tries to keep up.  His eyes soften when he sees her, and she knows hers do the same.

But she tries to ignore the feelings, tries to keep thing to the smallest of flirtations, too afraid of being hurt to let herself go.

\--

The moment she lets herself fall is when she gets the letter from the First Warden.

They want him to go to Orlais.  They want him to leave, to travel to the nation he hates, and she cannot allow that.  She _will_ not.

Frustration rises in her, coming to a boil as she reads the words on the paper before her.  Loghain had brought it, because of _course_ the First Warden wouldn’t inform her himself; why would he?  It isn’t as if she’s the Warden-Commander, or anything.  She tells herself that the frustration is about that, about Weisshaupt ignoring her, but she knows better.  Some part of her – and she doesn’t know how large that part is – _cares_ for him.  And she has lost too many people that she cares about to lose him, too.

She grips her desk tight enough to turn her knuckles white and bares her teeth at the offending document, allows her rage to explode forth in the storms she is legendary for.  He expects her to allow him to leave – expects her to abandon him.

“Do you truly think so _little_ of me?” she spits, “They will not take you.  They _won’t_.”

The words are said through clenched teeth as bile rises in her throat.  Life after the Blight was supposed to be easier, not _harder,_ but here she is.  And here _he_ is, and here is whatever lies between them, something fragile and new and _now_ she doesn’t know what to do.

“I’m not letting them have you,” she repeats, “I’m _not_ leaving you, either, and I say the First Warden can take his orders and shove them up his _ass_!”

Ana ends her tirade by crumpling up said orders and throwing them at the nearest wall, chest heaving.  She can’t lose him, not now, not just as she’s beginning to accept that she might feel _something_ for him.  A sigh leaves her. She presses the heels of her hands against her eyes as if that will make her problems evaporate – she knows it _won’t,_ but it might stop the prickling, stinging feeling she feels there – and then she looks back at Loghain.  Her frustration and anger leave her all at once, the tide receding, and she crosses the distance between them.

“ _Emma lath,_ ” she says tenderly, and prays that he does not know the language of her people, “I will never abandon you.”

It feels strange to speak the words of her people after so long, but she is too afraid to tell him the truth in words he understands.  Thankfully, he does not ask for her meaning as she threads their fingers together and presses her hand against his chest.  She only hopes that he hears the tenderness in her voice and that it is enough for him.  The hand on his chest slides up to cup the back of his head and she pulls him down to meet her, a quick brush of her lips against his, a gentle kiss between two people who are anything but.

She pulls away right after, searching his face for his reaction.  She doesn’t know what she expects – she _hopes_ that he will not be disgusted, that he will not _run,_ but knowing how alike they are she must accept the possibility.  But Loghain is smiling at her, just the smallest softening of his features and the slightest curve of his lips, and she can’t help but smile back.

The path she’s taken to get to this point was long and hard, but in that moment, it almost feels _worth_ it.


End file.
